


Running Lines

by malehead (cephalopop)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cephalopop/pseuds/malehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler and Dylan get drunk and run lines and makeouts ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Lines

The mid-season interviews are fun. There's more to talk about, the fans are engaged, and the interviewers are always grinning and probing. Dylan had a good round of interviews.

"I'm pumped," Dylan says to Hoechlin, leaning across the hotel bar's table to be heard. "I'm totally stoked." He pulls his soda off the table and holds it between his knees, glancing around quickly before pouring another airplane bottle of whiskey into it. "Let's run lines or something, I'm ready to work, you know? I killed it today. I want to continue to kill it."

Crystal gapes at him. She was the only one, beside Tyler, willing to sit at the hotel bar with him post-interviews. For Dylan, the novelty of pouring airplane bottles into soda had not yet worn off. "Lines? What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Dylan says. He takes a sip and grimaces.

Tyler rolls his eyes. "Really though, Dylan." He flags a waiter and orders two shots of whiskey.

"Here," he says when the shots arrive. He slides one to Crystal and one to Dylan. "In celebration. We're paying enough that they won't care."

Crystal shakes her head and pushes the shot back to Tyler. "Thanks," she says, "But it'd just send me to sleep. I'm going to go to bed so I don't get trapped running lines."

She departs gracefully. Dylan raises his eyebrows at Tyler. Tyler looks disdainfully at his shot.

"In celebration!" Dylan lifts his up, then glances around nervously.

"I asked for this," Tyler says, and throws his back first. Dylan watches the line of his throat before following suit.

Another shot and a beer later, Dylan is pleasantly hazy, and grasping at Tyler's hands across the table. "Let's run lines," he says. "Please. Lines. Please. I'm so into it. I'm on fire. I'm unstoppable."

"God," Tyler says, and Dylan might have thought he was irritated, if it wasn't for the grin threatening to crack his face. Like how he might've thought Tyler was sober if he hadn't witnessed him knock over a glass twice. "Look, ok, fine, but I don't want to be _those actors_ \--" here doing dramatic air quotes, "--running lines in the bar." 

"Yes!" Dylan stands up quickly and his chair teeters precariously on its back legs before slamming forward. "Let's go! Minifridges to raid! Your minifridge, actually. Do we have to pay for those?"

In Tyler's room, Dylan makes himself another whiskey soda and looks around. The room smells clean, but slept in, and the sheets on the bed are wildly mussed. Tyler's bag is open at the foot of the bed, his dirty clothe strewn around it. The air conditioning hums. He realizes he hasn't hung out in Tyler's room before. Posey's, yes, even sometimes the girls' rooms, but never Tyler's. He sits tentatively on the foot of the bed.

"So," Tyler says. He is standing by the minifridge with an airplane bottle in each hand.

Dylan looks up.

"Should I drink vodka or rum? Are we running lines? I don't have my script."

"Rum, obviously," Dylan says. He takes a long sip, and the whiskey doesn't even burn anymore, it's just warmth that travels down his throat and settles in his stomach. He closes his eyes for a moment, and settles into Stiles' headspace-- it isn't hard, not anymore. It's never been hard. "Look," he says, an edge of panic in his voice now, "I don't know if I can do this."

Tyler's infectious smile slides off his face, the warmth slipping from his eyes-- it's almost frightens Dylan to see, and that sends Stiles' panic rising more. It's good. He latches onto it. "Why not?" Tyler says through gritted teeth. He sets the bottles atop the fridge, both untouched.

"Well," Dylan says, his voice rising in pitch with the panic, "because of the cutting through the flesh, the sawing of the bone, and especially the blood!" He sets his drink down as well, next to his feet. He leans forward towards Tyler and wrings his hands.

Tyler takes a step forward. He-- he doesn't even look like Tyler anymore, not with the deep furrow in his brown and the determined set of his jaw. He is dangerous, and even more unattainable. "You faint at the sight of blood?"

Irritation edges into Stiles' panic, irritation that Derek doesn't _get it_ , that Stiles shouldn't have to do this stuff, that Derek trusts him to do it, or needs him to, and something about that turns the irritation into something hotter he can't define-- "No, but I might at the sight of a chopped off arm!"

"Alright, fine." Tyler takes another step forward, and now he is towering over Dylan where he sits. "How about this." He leans down, and Dylan leans back, his breath caught in his throat. "Either you cut off my arm, or I'm going to cut off your head." Tyler bares his teeth, and Dylan can almost see fangs.

"Derek," he sputters, and he breaks character, even though it was idea to run lines, but Derek-- _Tyler_ is so close to him, way too close and way too dangerous, and there are no cameras, no directors, no lights, barely any light at all actually, and whatever light there is casting shadows across Tyler's face. But that was not his next line.

Tyler--Derek-- he doesn't know anymore-- curls his fingers in the collar of Dylan's shirt and pulls him closer. "Do it," he says. And that's not a line either. Somewhere in his mind Dylan knows this, but Stiles' panic, and that something else, is overwhelming.

"I can't," he says, because it's true, he could never cut off anyone's arm, let alone Tyler's.

"Stiles," Tyler threatens through clenched teeth.

Dylan can't cut off his arm-- they're running lines, he thinks they are at least, leaning closer to each other in a dim hotel room inches away from slept-in sheets. 

"Do it," Tyler says again.

He doesn't know what to do. So Dylan closes the distance between them and kisses Tyler.

First there is no reaction-- and a moment of sharp terror for Dylan-- but then Tyler, or Derek, growls against his mouth. It's a sound that he has never heard Tyler make, from deep in his chest. And he bares his teeth against Dylan's mouth, pulling his lips back to catch Dylan's lower lip between his teeth.

Dylan tries to say something, maybe an "oh," but it's muffled. Tyler tightens his grip on Dylan's shirt and pulls upward, until they're both standing at the foot of the bed. Tyler holds Dylan tight by the waist like he isn't sure where to put his hands. The grip is too tight and should be uncomfortable, but it makes his skin feel hot and desperate for more touch, and the alcohol is making him dizzy and hypersensitive. Tyler bites at his lips, then runs his tongue across them. Dylan presses forward until their chests are flush.

He breaks the kiss and presses his mouth to the crook of Tyler's neck and mutters "Tyler," into his skin.

Tyler tilts his head to the side, baring his neck, and hums something back, barely audible, whispered, unsure-- sounds like "Stiles."

So Dylan touches his teeth to the flesh of Tyler's neck and says "Derek," this time.

The grip on his waist tightens. Dylan says it again, and again, until Tyler captures his lips to shut him up. He breaks the kiss only long enough to push Dylan back onto the bed.

"Oh," Dylan says. He slides back towards the pillows, stretched out, and Tyler covers his body with his own. Tyler shoves a leg between them and presses ferociously up against Dylan's crotch, and it makes him arch into Tyler's body and claw across his shoulderblades. "God," Dylan says, and Tyler does that strange chest-rumbling again. "Derek," he says, and Tyler presses up again, and presses biting kisses down Dylan's neck and across his shoulders, biting through the fabric. Dylan speaks in Stiles' unfiltered rambling: "Had no idea, no idea, can't believe this is happening-- I thought you hated me, thought I was just collateral to Scott; I should be collateral, nothing special, god, just--" and is cut off when Tyler bites hard into his pectoral and palms his cock through his jeans.

Then Tyler kisses him again, all teeth and wandering hands. Dylan runs his hands up underneath Tyler's shirt and across his shoulderblades and then down, quickly, dipping his fingers beneath Tyler's waistband.

"Yeah," Dylan says into Tyler's mouth, running his hands over Tyler's denim-covered ass, gripping and rolling his hips up.

Tyler breaks the kiss to match Dylan's thrusts, resting his forehead against Dylan's. "Jesus," Tyler says in that low voice that's not supposed to exist offset. "Yeah. Stiles." Dylan looks and Tyler's eyes are screwed shut.

"Derek," Dylan says, and Tyler opens his eyes. They're dark, and hot, and focused, and all on him, and so close. Tyler is two people in one body. He rolls his hips again and forgets those thoughts.

Dylan grips Tyler's shoulderblades tightly, pulling him down on top of him totally. He is heavy and tall and muscular and quivering. Tyler muffles himself against Dylan's shoulder, and Dylan tilts his head back and lets Stiles' stream-of-consciousness continue to flow, nonsense words and Derek's name and all sorts of things might regret.

Tyler huffs against Dylan's shoulder and says Stiles' name again, quietly, and then is shaking against Dylan as he comes, all his weight pressed trapping Dylan to the bed.

Dylan thrusts quicker against Tyler, more erratic, and Tyler drags his tongue across the sweating skin of Dylan's neck until Dylan is gasping through his own orgasm.

The room is silent then, the air stuffy with the smell of sweat and alcohol, and the sound of strained breathing.

"Good lines," Dylan says, and he can feel Tyler grin and snicker against his skin.


End file.
